Guide Me Home Tonight
by Jesse Cullen
Summary: Lost in a blinding snowstorm, hunted by a pack of vicious monsters, John is rescued by the most unlikely, magnificent creature he's ever seen.


It's still another fifty miles back to the motel when the first flakes fall. John, already a hair away from punching out the Impala's radio system for having gotten stuck on an all-Christmas music all the time channel, spits nails when the first sign of snow lands on the windshield.

Great. As far as things go, this is actually right up there with shooting the moon and becoming just fucking great. Christmas Eve, miles from the motel, boiling over with anger and now it's starting to snow.

But John Winchester is a Kansas boy; he's not too worried about a little bit of the white stuff. He cranks the defroster up, sets the tempo of the wipers in time to the Paul McCartney Christmas tune and meets the flakes the same way he meets everything: head-on and with an I-fucking-dare-you glare.

But the snow in this part of Michigan has never heard of John Winchester before; it doesn't know that it's defying the laws of nature in defying him. The harder John cuts through it, the harder it comes down, until it's nothing more than a plain as day squall.

John starts to get concerned—not scared; he's got two boys waiting for him back at the motel—two boys who believe that nothing scares Dad. And again, he's driven through the thick of it before. Sure, he's crawling along at thirty clicks through a stretch of wooded backroad; and sure—he can't really see less than six feet in front of him. But there's still light; still hope. The car hasn't let him down before now.

The wind begins to scream as it kicks up sheets of white powder and tosses the falling flakes to and fro. John imagines that the wind is laughing at him because it gives him something to hate; and John's kicked the ever-loving piss out of things he's hated time and again.

Soon the windshield is obscured by snow; the wind whispers tauntingly through the cracks in the car. John slows down to ten miles per hour. The car is fairly rocking back and forth now, some mournful Christmas ditty by The Carpenters sounding horribly disjointed and warbled through the speakers.

John looks out the window and thinks; _okay motherfucker. I'll bite_ —because John also knows when he has to play dead with the enemy. Sudden as the storm is, it's a passing thing—ten, fifteen minutes with the motor running and he'll be good to go.

He pulls onto the side of the road and waits, tapping his fingers—not nervously—in rhythm to the barely audible song. Soon he'll be back home, with his boys. Somewhere behind the irritation—again, _not_ fear because he never gets afraid—he remembers that Sam and Dean were the reason he stormed out of the motel in the first place. Only now he wants nothing more than to see them again, he can't for the life of him recall what.

Something he did. Sure, to the outside observer it was the boys—back-talk, or carelessness, or silent sadness at it being Christmas Eve and nothing to look forward to, rose John's blood pressure, and he stormed out for a cool-off drive before he did something regrettable. But John knows it's his own damn self—his fault for having such a foul temper, for having dragged two innocent kids into a world of nightmares.

He'll apologize to them; he'll tell them they're taking another sabbatical; he'll hustle pool to get them Christmas presents, all once he gets out of this snowstorm...because he's going to; because he's John Winchester, and the storm is going to pass.

The wind continues to scream and scream; John turns the radio down, not that it matters all that much; he can hardly hear it as it is. There's something in the wind, he's sure of it—a different kind of screaming. It's lower, but still shrill and plaintive—like a kid lost in the dark. The noise wreaks havoc in John's mind; he can hear it plain as day now...

"Help me...help me..."

There's someone out there—there's a kid out there in the snowstorm. Anyone could get lost around this lonely stretch of backroad—another car, or maybe some poor kid out for a night of sledding.

John reaches in the glove compartment for his gloves and a flashlight; just for extra precaution he grabs a 44 Magnum. Then it's up with the hood of his jacket and out into the snow.

The mighty, mighty wind nearly bowls him over. The snow stings at his exposed face; he bows his head, peering through the whiteout as hard as he can.

"Help me! Help me!"

The screaming is frantic, somewhere nearby.

"Hang on!" John roars, his baritone booming like a lion's cry through the wind. "Stay where you are!"

"Help me! Help me, Dad! Dad, help me!"

John's heart ceases for a second; his throat tightens; all other thought abandons him aside for the alpha wolf need to protect his family.

Because that's Sam out there, Sam screaming for him.

"Sam!" John walks against the wind, snow battering him this way and that. "Sam, don't move! I'm coming!"

"Dad? Dad where are you?"

"Sam—damn it, buddy, just stay put!"

"Dad, please!"

John reaches for his flashlight, but the light is so weak he may well be using a Zippo. But he doesn't give a shit; that is his son out there—his little boy, and whatever happened to make John leave the motel doesn't matter because Sam needs him.

"Dad, help me! I'm scared!"

"Sam, stay the fuck-

John's a good ten feet from the car when he stops dead, biting wind grasping at his flesh like the claws of a wendigo.

Sam can't be out in this storm. Sam is still at the hotel. John was only away for the better part of an hour, and it would take at least three for anyone to make it from the hotel to this stretch of deserted road.

Something moves, quick as a flash behind him. It lets out a whoop that sounds like the wind.

John turns, expecting to see the car, solid and black and reliable, somewhere behind him. But there's only beating snow and raging winds and a horrible sound of echoing laughter.

There's something watching him, something waiting for him—a lot of somethings running around and taunting his stupidity for taking the bait. John stands still, feeling his face go numb with icy cold. He listens as best he can as the hoop and halloo sounds from everywhere. Whatever they are, they're closing in on him.

Again John sees something on the periphery of his vision—something that moves like shadow. The second he whips around to locate it, another one leaps past from the direction he faced only a split-second before.

He thinks about Sam and Dean: they wouldn't want Dad to be afraid of something like this; Dad's a Vet; Dad makes the boogeyman piss his pants. Sam and Dean are waiting for him to come back, and come back he will, begging their pardon and forgiveness for being such a bastard.

He pulls the Magnum out of his pants pocket, waits for a moment; the creatures in the snow cackle again; one of them jumps at John's six and he turns and fires.

He sees something black and short and stout—the size of a child hit the snow. The creatures shriek in mad anguish that still sounds like the frenzy of delight. John keeps his hand on the gun and crunches towards the felled thing.

It looks like some kind of child's fairy tale dwarf; it's bundled in rags so that John

can't see it. He can smell something acrid and earthy, almost like the odor of a goat. He cocks the gun again, not daring to give the thing the chance to get away.

It lets out a shrieking giggle, rolls over and lunges at him. John sees round, blazing red eyes, bright as blood and big as his fist. The thing hits him, and though it's short and round and looks like it came from a Grimm fairy tale, it's stronger than he thought—strong enough to knock him to the ground.

More of the things pounce from within the raging blizzard; John struggles and kicks, but they bite at him, sinking wide sets of tiny razor teeth into his skin and jacket. The gun goes off twice but the creatures won't stay down—they're going to fillet him alive and leave his rotting carcass here on the frozen ground.

Between the disorienting pain and his own attempts to fight back, he thinks again about his boys—his brave, beautiful boys. They'll be without a father now and they're too young for that. He'll never get to tell Sam how sorry he is for all the hell he's given him—never get to try and make up for all the times he's torn Sam's roots out of the ground and moved him off from their temporary towns. He'll never get to watch Dean grow and become the man John's seen in him all these years; never get to tell him how much he appreciates Dean shouldering so much responsibility.

He'll never get to tell either of them how proud he is, or how much he loves them.

He tries to crawl, and the creatures let him get far enough to feel some kind of hope; but again they pounce and tear at his body.

Suddenly a call, loud, deep and resonant as a trumpet, cuts through the howling wind. The creatures still, making their eerie vocalizations, confused and almost afraid. They look up, forgetting about John, and the next second they shriek and squeal as something comes thundering through the storm. John, barely conscious from pain and cold and blood loss, isn't sure what he sees—only that it's immense, heavy and emitting a furious crimson light.

It bellows, loud as a grizzly bear, and stampedes towards the scattering fiends. The creatures are nowhere near fast enough to disperse before the thing is stomping them with mighty hooves, and goring them in its towering horns.

Slowly, John staggers to his feet, his skin torn, open wounds bleeding onto the snow. His horned rescuer tosses its head, ridding itself of the least limp, red-eyed creature.

His rescuer is tall, taller than any horse John's ever seen. It's antlers stand proud and wide, at least fourteen points. It's white, but not like snow—it's more silver than that, almost luminous. Intelligent brown eyes rest on John, and it pads slowly towards him, holding him frozen with that stare, illuminating everything around with the light emanating from its...

John wonders if he's lost more blood than he thought. But this proud beast is real, the faint wild smell of it reaching his nose. The only thing he can't really reconcile is the red light shining at the end of its muzzle. It's bright, cutting through the darkness and the snow, yet there's something natural about it, almost like the fiery splash of an aurora.

The stag pads closer to John, lowering its antlers in a supplicant gesture. John staggers towards the beautiful beast, and runs his bloody hand over its neck.

He feels something radiate from it—something like the power of childhood memory. It feels just like that unnamed spectacular something that ebbs through him every time he really listens and looks at his boys. It's home and safety, and the longer he rests his broken and weary body against the stag, the warmer he feels—his skin knits together; his wounds seal, and he feels suddenly warmed to the marrow.

He looks into the beast's eyes once more. He doesn't know where the car is, and doesn't care. All he wants right now is one thing in the shape of two.

"Please," he whispers, his voice ragged, "take me home."

A gentle lo rumbles in the stag's chest. It kneels down on its forelegs, and John is still too dazed from his wounds, the cold and the impossibility of this whole situation to understand what it wants at first.

The stag snorts and tosses its head back.

It wants John to ride.

His legs shaking, John climbs onto the stag's broad back. He closes his arms around its neck, breathing in the smell of it—not altogether unpleasant. The stag rights itself and begins to canter across the snow; then it's breaking into a full gallop. The ground disappears from beneath its hooves, and the next thing John knows, they're airborne. The stag kicks its legs, galloping through the frosty air, the light from its muzzle illuminating a path clear through the snow and dark.

The ride seems to last a pleasant forever—John feels his mind wander to that place of memory; to his sons and everything they still have. He looks lazily down as the stag flies through the air—snowcapped trees spread out below them, giving way to the road after several lingering minutes.

Soon the magnificent creature descends gently through the blizzard. It lands softly in the field behind the building, and kneels down. John slips from its back, then turns to stroke it's fur.

The stag nods its head into John's touch; and John spends several moments coaxing his fingers through the beast's thick, silver-white fur.

"Thank you," he says. Aside from bone weariness, he feels as if he never even encountered the red-eyes fiends.

The stag brushes its warm, glowing nose against John's face. Then it turns, and gallops into the snowstorm.

John breathes a sigh. Then he walks through the frigid air. The cars in the parking lot are covered in a solid three inches of snow; and there isn't a soul in sight. John sees the Impala parked where he pulled it in days ago—he doesn't know how it got here; he doesn't care. But he can see the glow coming through a curtain of the suite he rented out.

The glow of home.

When he opens the door, he hears them both—and they're arguing, over him from the sounds of it. The whole place smells of slightly burnt microwave pizza and two growing boys; and John wouldn't have it any other way.

Dean catches sight of him first. His oldest is sixteen now—sixteen and tall and growing into a man that John is so damn proud of. John can't believe he ever did something so heinous as sending Dean off to a stranger's place for the stupid innocent sin of stealing some food. He can't believe he banished that face with its big, feeling green eyes—and can't believe that Dean came back, unharmed and forgiving.

"Dad!" Dean hurries to him.

Sam, his back to the door, turns around. He's gangly, his hair thick and long; his eyes are like Mary's, full of spitfire and an intelligence that John never appreciated until now.

Both boys look overwhelmingly relieved, but it's nothing to how John feels. He could have been left out in the snow, left for nothing, disappeared under frozen wintery flakes until the spring thaw. His boys—his beautiful, beautiful boys wouldn't have known, and they'd have been so scared and lost, their last memory of their father one of yelling and slamming doors.

John all but stumbles across the threshold, sinks to his knees as his boys close in. He pulls them close, laughing a little when they both still at the unexpected contact.

"Dad?" Sam asks. "What happened?"

But John shakes his head. They won't believe him.

"Doesn't matter, buddy boy." He relinquishes his embrace, and looks between the two best things he ever did—ever made.

"You okay, Dad?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, Dean. I am now."

He turns to Sam, give him a smile; Sam's eyes light up in a way John knows he hasn't been the cause of for far too long.

"Let's get some shut eye, huh guys?"

"Sure, Dad. But it's only eight."

"Well, y'know... Santa Claus is always watching."

Sam laughs. "Really, Dad?"

"Well, you never know, Sammy. You never know."


End file.
